trees. He saw Winter reloading his rifle, and he sprang forward, but Fred Johnson came out of the bushes and struck him hard with an iron bar.
Sevenkiller tried to take aim at Johnson, but there was too much movement as the big ex-slave fought the two men, and no clear target. Another flash of light came from the woods and Sevenkiller felt a bullet whiz past. He saw Winter dive back behind the oak tree.
“Hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller said. He circled around with his rifle at his shoulder, hoping to catch Winter fleeing into the woods. Instead Winter leapt out and tackled him, making a sound like a saw biting into hard wood.
“You little black fucker!” Winter shouted.
They landed with Winter on top, pressing his splinted left forearm into Sevenkiller’s neck while his raising a broad knife with his right hand.
Sevenkiller dug his fingers into Winter’s arm, which he well remembered was broken, and Winter almost buckled. Sevenkiller dodged the knife easily by moving his head and then swept Winter off with a quick, strong movement of his hips, ending up on top of him, straddling his chest.
“Goodbye,” Sevenkiller whispered.
He kept squeezing Winter’s broken arm with one hand while he struggled for the knife with the other. Winter tried to buck him off, but it was impossible; the little man stuck close to him.
Finally Sevenkiller pinned the knife arm to the ground with his knee and smashed Winter’s face with his free hand, hissing, “You see? You see?”
Sevenkiller yanked the knife away. But Winter used his every ounce of strength to lift his legs and twist his whole body and pitch Sevenkiller off, howling as he did.
Sevenkiller scrambled to gain his feet, but this time it was Winter who was a little quicker, and his shin connected violently with Sevenkiller’s face. Sevenkiller stumbled back.
“You little—” Sevenkiller said, laughing, and then stopped. He was looking at something behind Winter. Winter turned around. Itwas Fred Johnson, breathing deeply, flexing his big hands. He was covered in blood, but very little of it seemed to be his own.
Sevenkiller’s eyes flicked between them and then he ran.
Winter stooped and picked up the rifle Sevenkiller had dropped.
“Forget it,” Johnson gasped. “He gone.”
And indeed Sevenkiller had made it into the trees and was darting from side to side, crouched low to the earth, using every bit of cover he could find.
Winter lifted the rifle to his shoulder and held it there for a long couple of seconds. Finally he fired. From the woods there came a surprised shout of pain. And then laughter.
Winter gave Johnson a brief look, then lowered the weapon and walked into the forest.
“Hee hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller giggled. “Hee hee hee!”
They found him nimbly worming his way over the ground, his black hair plastered to his head and a big red stain blossoming on his shirt. The bullet had struck him in the lower back and he was crawling away over the mud and the leaves and the tree roots as quickly as he could. Surprisingly fast, but not nearly fast enough.
“Hidey ho! Hidey ho!”
Winter jammed the barrel into the back of Sevenkiller’s head.
“I’m free at last!” Sevenkiller screamed. “Free! Free!”
The words struck a peculiar chord with Johnson, so that as the gun fired, he flinched.
25
Duncan was halfway across the river when the bridge collapsed into the water, the flaming beams cracking and snapping and lighting up the gray autumn afternoon. For a brief time he stopped swimming, kicking against the current and holding his rifle above his head. Then he resumed swimming until his feet were on solid ground.
When he came over the top of the bank he saw the bodies lying at the edge of the woods, and he made his way over there as quickly as he could. There were two: an older Indian and a white man. Both of them looked to have been beaten to death with a blunt object.
The sound of voices came through the trees. Duncan turned hishead
Sevenkiller tried to take aim at Johnson, but there was too much movement as the big ex-slave fought the two men, and no clear target. Another flash of light came from the woods and Sevenkiller felt a bullet whiz past. He saw Winter dive back behind the oak tree.
“Hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller said. He circled around with his rifle at his shoulder, hoping to catch Winter fleeing into the woods. Instead Winter leapt out and tackled him, making a sound like a saw biting into hard wood.
“You little black fucker!” Winter shouted.
They landed with Winter on top, pressing his splinted left forearm into Sevenkiller’s neck while his raising a broad knife with his right hand.
Sevenkiller dug his fingers into Winter’s arm, which he well remembered was broken, and Winter almost buckled. Sevenkiller dodged the knife easily by moving his head and then swept Winter off with a quick, strong movement of his hips, ending up on top of him, straddling his chest.
“Goodbye,” Sevenkiller whispered.
He kept squeezing Winter’s broken arm with one hand while he struggled for the knife with the other. Winter tried to buck him off, but it was impossible; the little man stuck close to him.
Finally Sevenkiller pinned the knife arm to the ground with his knee and smashed Winter’s face with his free hand, hissing, “You see? You see?”
Sevenkiller yanked the knife away. But Winter used his every ounce of strength to lift his legs and twist his whole body and pitch Sevenkiller off, howling as he did.
Sevenkiller scrambled to gain his feet, but this time it was Winter who was a little quicker, and his shin connected violently with Sevenkiller’s face. Sevenkiller stumbled back.
“You little—” Sevenkiller said, laughing, and then stopped. He was looking at something behind Winter. Winter turned around. Itwas Fred Johnson, breathing deeply, flexing his big hands. He was covered in blood, but very little of it seemed to be his own.
Sevenkiller’s eyes flicked between them and then he ran.
Winter stooped and picked up the rifle Sevenkiller had dropped.
“Forget it,” Johnson gasped. “He gone.”
And indeed Sevenkiller had made it into the trees and was darting from side to side, crouched low to the earth, using every bit of cover he could find.
Winter lifted the rifle to his shoulder and held it there for a long couple of seconds. Finally he fired. From the woods there came a surprised shout of pain. And then laughter.
Winter gave Johnson a brief look, then lowered the weapon and walked into the forest.
“Hee hee hee hee!” Sevenkiller giggled. “Hee hee hee!”
They found him nimbly worming his way over the ground, his black hair plastered to his head and a big red stain blossoming on his shirt. The bullet had struck him in the lower back and he was crawling away over the mud and the leaves and the tree roots as quickly as he could. Surprisingly fast, but not nearly fast enough.
“Hidey ho! Hidey ho!”
Winter jammed the barrel into the back of Sevenkiller’s head.
“I’m free at last!” Sevenkiller screamed. “Free! Free!”
The words struck a peculiar chord with Johnson, so that as the gun fired, he flinched.
25
Duncan was halfway across the river when the bridge collapsed into the water, the flaming beams cracking and snapping and lighting up the gray autumn afternoon. For a brief time he stopped swimming, kicking against the current and holding his rifle above his head. Then he resumed swimming until his feet were on solid ground.
When he came over the top of the bank he saw the bodies lying at the edge of the woods, and he made his way over there as quickly as he could. There were two: an older Indian and a white man. Both of them looked to have been beaten to death with a blunt object.
The sound of voices came through the trees. Duncan turned hishead
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